


intersubjective verifiability

by nysscientia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Magical Lydia Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nysscientia/pseuds/nysscientia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting in the cafeteria and sawing unnecessarily at a chicken nugget she has no intention of eating, Allison finally snaps, “Lydia, what is your deal?”</p>
<p>Lydia pops a grape into her mouth, staring out a window as though she has the table all to herself.</p>
<p>“I went out, I was tracking, I was by myself, it’s <em>nothing</em>,” Allison continues.</p>
<p>“Nothing?” Lydia repeats, eyes still on the parking lot outside.  “You know what’s interesting about being by yourself, Allison?  Intersubjective verifiability.”</p>
<p>Allison opens her mouth to answer, stops, takes a deep breath.  “Intersub–”</p>
<p>“A concept’s capacity to be substantiated via reproduction under varying circumstances and accurate communication between individuals.”  Lydia’s gaze snaps back to Allison.  “Useful in distinguishing between physical experience and hallucination, for example.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	intersubjective verifiability

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-season threeish. Vague references to canonical trauma.

“Alone.”

Allison doesn’t answer, rifling through her backpack.

“By yourself.”

“As implied by the word ‘alone,’” she agrees.

She stops rummaging. She can’t remember what she was looking for.

“Allison!” Lydia’s voice is entering that special register, the one that means approaching cataclysm.

Suddenly, her hand circles Allison’s wrist, and Allison can’t help but look up. Lydia’s eyes are huge and hazel and dark. Allison stares for a moment.

And then Lydia says primly, “I think I’m done studying today,” and there’s a flurry of delicate polka dots and strawberry curls and perfume and she’s gone.

Allison resists the urge to roll her eyes at her empty bedroom.

-

The next morning, Allison wakes up apropos of nothing, and checks the clock to discover she’s up ten minutes before her alarm. She drops heavily back onto her pillow and scrubs her hands over her eyes. Then she feels around her nightstand for her cell phone.

No new notifications.

She lets out a frustrated noise and climbs out of bed. Her dad’s brow furrows when he notices how frequently she’s checking her phone during breakfast– but he knows better than to ask, and Allison appreciates it. She tells herself the same thing he’d probably say anyway: it doesn’t mean anything that she hasn’t heard from her. That’s normal after a fight.

Lydia never does text to request a ride, so Allison’s fifteen minutes early for school.

When classes start, she discovers that Lydia has come down with a condition that prevents her from speaking to or hearing or even really acknowledging Allison. That’s how they spend the whole morning.

Sitting in the cafeteria and sawing unnecessarily at a chicken nugget she has no intention of eating, Allison finally snaps, “Lydia, what is your deal?”

Lydia pops a grape into her mouth, staring out a window as though she has the table all to herself.

“I went out, I was tracking, I was by myself, it’s _nothing_ ,” Allison continues.

“Nothing?” Lydia repeats, eyes still on the parking lot outside. “You know what’s interesting about being by yourself, Allison? Intersubjective verifiability.”

Allison opens her mouth to answer, stops, takes a deep breath. “Intersub–”

“A concept’s capacity to be substantiated via reproduction under varying circumstances and accurate communication between individuals.” Lydia’s gaze snaps back to Allison. “Useful in distinguishing between physical experience and hallucination, for example.”

Allison’s eyes widen. She still doesn’t know exactly what happened to Lydia before she learned the supernatural truth about Beacon Hills– she’s asked and been rebuffed too many times to count– but she’s heard enough non-answers to guess at a few things. 

“Intersubjective verification is impossible without more than one person, of course,” Lydia continues.

Allison wants to ask, now, but she can’t come up with words to frame a question.

Lydia turns back to the window, staring at the courtyard like it’s offended her. “I was alone last year.”

She doesn’t bother looking back at Allison as she scoops up her tray and dumps the rest of her lunch into the trash. Then she’s gone.

-

Allison doesn’t have class with Lydia again for the rest of the day. She tells herself it’s normal to go a few hours without texting your best friend, even after a fight.

She doesn’t see Lydia anywhere in the parking lot when she leaves the school. She reminds herself that it’s normal for friends to need some space, and chews on her bottom lip the whole way home.

When she finally pulls up to the apartment building, she decides her life hasn’t been normal for long enough now that she can probably stop using the term to justify her decisions, and hits the 4 on her speed dial.

“Hello, you’ve reached Lydia Martin,” Lydia’s voicemail purrs. Allison clicks her phone off and rests her forehead against the steering wheel, counting slowly as she breathes in and out. The problem with living as a former hunter in a territory full of unstable werewolf hierarchies is that she has no idea when she’s being paranoid and when people’s lives really are in danger.

She’s reaching for her phone to try calling again when it buzzes, just once, against her fingertips.

It’s a text: _Busy. Stay in tonight._

It’s good Lydia didn’t pick up, Allison decides– because if Lydia had tried to give her a curfew over the phone, Allison would’ve yelled at her.

-

By nine o’clock, Allison has finished her English reading, done most of her math problems, and dealt with none of her anger. So when her dad calls down the hall to her, she digs her fingernails into her palm for a second, making sure her voice will be calm when she yells back, “Yeah?”

“Door for you,” her dad answers. Allison glances at the clock on her nightstand, frowns. She makes her way to the foyer.

“Lydia,” her dad says by way of explanation. “I just buzzed her in.”

She nods. He grabs his half-empty beer off a side table and disappears into the living room.

The apartment building’s in good condition, so the elevator’s fast and Lydia’s knocking on the door only a few seconds later.

Allison opens the door. “Come to make sure I stayed home like a good girl?”

Lydia brushes past her and into the kitchen, dropping her purse on the island counter.

“No,” she answers. “I knew you were here.”

Allison follows her into the kitchen but stays in the entryway, leaning against the door frame. Lydia’s pulling things out of her purse, laying them out across the countertop. When she looks up, Allison raises an eyebrow at her.

“I told you to say in,” Lydia says, like it’s that simple.

“What are you doing here?” Allison replies, because she didn’t stay home just because Lydia asked her to– but she _did_ stay home, so she can’t make much of an argument.

“Since some of us can’t control ourselves enough to wait for backup,” Lydia says, straightening out a candle she’s set on the counter, “I decided to make you some.”

She picks up a section of braided black leather. “It’s a simple protection charm,” she explains. “Kind of like the ones Stiles made for the boys.”

Allison nods; the pattern of knots is familiar. “But it’s adapted for humans, of course. And I adjusted parts of it– I’ve woven in wolfsbane, and in this pattern, it offers mild protection against anything that could influence the mind.”

Allison takes the end of it in her fingertips. The leather is soft, like it’s been worked over pretty thoroughly.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

Lydia freezes for a second, eyes on Allison’s face. Allison can’t read her expression.

“It’s useless right now,” Lydia says, and the moment breaks. She drops the leather and goes back to the other things laid out across the table. Allison ties the braid around her wrist, using the same knot she’s seen on Scott and Isaac.

“There’s a simple binding ritual that’ll allow it to offer protection beyond just your arm,” she explains, lighting the candle. The ritual is simple by Lydia’s standards, but Allison doesn’t understand all the symbolism, so she just watches, offering her wrist whenever Lydia beckons for it. Lydia burns the ends of the leather, and the kitchen air thickens a little. She grabs a needle from the table, sterilizes it in the candle’s flame, and pricks her own finger. Then she turns Allison’s hand over and dabs a drop of blood into the knot Allison tied.

“There,” she says. “Blood given to save blood.” Her fingers are soft against Allison’s wrist.

“Lydia,” Allison says. Lydia looks up, and Allison forgets what she was going to say. “This must’ve taken you all day,” she says instead.

Lydia tilts her head in an almost-shrug. Her eyes catch on where she’s still holding Allison’s wrist, and she drops it abruptly. Allison catches Lydia’s hand, almost on reflex.

“Thank you,” she says. Lydia’s eyes are still on their hands.

Allison laces their fingers together.

Neither of them move for a few seconds. The kitchen’s still hazy, the smell of burned leather a sharp tang in the air. Allison listens to Lydia’s breathing; it’s soft and a little shallow.

And then Lydia leans in, and that’s all the permission Allison needs; she surges forward, pressing Lydia back against the counter, one hand on either side of her hips. She leans in to the hollow between Lydia’s neck and shoulder. “I really do appreciate it.”

She can’t see Lydia’s face, but there’s a smile in her voice when she _hmm_ s. “See, I’m not getting that,” she says, in the light voice she puts on. “Maybe you should show me.”

Allison grins against her skin. “Is that a challenge?”

Lydia’s hands curl around Allison’s jaw, tug her face up so they’re making eye contact.

“I’m always a challenge,” she says, and kisses Allison hard.


End file.
